drinking games of the future (part 1)

The one guarantee of me post-apocalypse is that my logic-brain will abort, leaving behind a slope shouldered droop-mouthed mumble to paw through clouds of I-told-you-so. A full 90-degree antenna adjustment will be required to pick up my frequency, the same oh shit sputtered at the start of our universe.

My in-the-now mind is a teaming mass of riddles, one worm crawling over the other and poking at eyes and adenoids in hopes of hasty escape. Let’s saddle them all.

The apocalypse will be sponsored by everything in your medicine cabinet, everything string-walking your carcass through the vacancy of waking before coffee, everything floating in the water.

The apocalypse dictates that you need to be where I am as soon as possible, covered in some colorful fur. Synthetic shields ward off zombies inevitably sent out in droves to salvage our mutating DNA strands for the preservation of our black hole birthing species.

Modern-day medicated marvels will make convenient zombies. All the xanax and ritalin and zoloft popping pseudo-humans will find their brains in uproar when neutral shifts to high-octane and unexpected serotonin floods leave them feeling, unfocused, and horny. The brain freeze that trapped them in adolescence or their twenties or whatever age they consented to cease evolution for the sake of assimilation will thaw, and either they’ll access some mightily repressed thunderclap of survivalism or they’ll wander the streets whining that their heads have come uncorked.

Or something else entirely.

Maybe the end of convenience will send my own brain into mudslide, and I’ll join the hoards kicking out the glass walls of empty pharmacies, shaking the shoulders of the four remaining doctors and begging for a chemical-charged escape hatch from the holy shit.

Feeling, unfocused, horny: why aren’t we fucking in the street yet? As soon as public copulation becomes part of the day-to-day we’ll be too distracted to complete our morning commutes, accelerating abandonment of bills and rent, reducing us to squatters defending paper huts with makeshift bows and dirty grandpa shotguns. Then time can be occupied with better things, like recalling movies we can no longer watch, ruining all the endings. We can trade quotes until we’re bored enough to consent to a sober round of “I Never” featuring new world statements like, “I never drank a clean glass of water” and “I never had sex without wearing a gas mask” and “I never fucked a man without a tail.”

Of course, the giggle sucks dry with the ugly realization that most of the survivors are coal-faced drainers of the happy tank. With their generators dead and fish growing feet they’ll get angry some fuckers have the nerve to start a pillow fight. There’s a lot of organizing and filing to do. Children could witness the pillow fight, and think for a second that survival isn’t only continuing to go even if you don’t know where you’re going, or why.

Even in a post-flood world some will be too busy hiding in their shelters to ask.

2 Replies to “drinking games of the future (part 1)”

Some, rather than kicking down pharmacy walls, will dig up their obsessively hoarded knowledge of recreational chemistry strung tegether from third hand stories on the internet and take advantage of the new lawlessnes to create their own brain soup. Stuff way better than any corporate pharmaceutical company would allow to come to market. These folks will be the post apocalyptic shamans giving comfort to the broken and lost in the wasteland.

we had done what we had thought we must to, in the rapture of reality unhinged, to make it thru the storm, which wore the face of every fellow human and their creations…

and when the climax had come, and the tornado of tuna cans ipods hubcabs and plastic bags settled, and the remaining walked the surface again, we had wondered later how much of we had done to survive had truly necessary, and how much had been panic-induced gratuity.

what was the ratio of trial to error? how would we even have known? how did destiny factor in? did it, now that the last of the looted pop-tarts were last weeks toxic excretia in the broken sewers?

had it ever?

understanding now that every expert dies before birth, that there was nobody to count on for an explanation of the circumstances, once the incredible panic-induced orgiastic celebration of confusion unhinged run its course, and become another tired coping dressed as copulation, what were we to actually do?

who were we anyway, once we realized that both the concepts of individuality and herd had been the last beams of scaffolding to fall from another identity model we had been building all along, a project so mysterious we had hidden it from ourselves until the seams grew outgrown and split apart…

nobody built a radio station out of somebody’s refuse. and broadcast its observations to nobody, and nobody heard, and nobody woke up from the fear and pain induced by the loss of illusion, which nobody had previously awaken before dawn every morning to paint upon its face, to pretend to be somebody. nobody was at least comforted at the notion that another part of itself was out there experiencing it too.

somebody, many sombodies, all of them, finally dead and free of their obligations, and nobody was finally free of that nurturing coccoon become self-inflicted curse.

we had died, i had died, it was finally dead. the next phase now naked in the mirror, terrifying and beautiful.